


We'll Dance Inside the Song

by strikinglight



Series: Squad Levi Week 2k15 [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, F/M, New Year's Eve, Scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/pseuds/strikinglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the same, she still thinks she’d dearly love to be out on the floor right now, floating and light on her feet and caught up completely in the music. </p><p>Or: Petra wants a dance. Because it’s New Year’s Eve, she gets four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Dance Inside the Song

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3 offering for [Squad Levi Week.](http://squadleviweek.tumblr.com) Prompt: "Revelry."

When the musicians take their places to one side of the ballroom, the four of them, in compliance with some earlier unspoken agreement, come together at the far end of the buffet table, by what remains of the dessert station. They probably cut a funny figure, all decked out as they are in brushed suits and beaded, billowing ball gown, but still standing in a circle with their heads together as though they’re discussing a new formation, or the mechanics of a new coordinated attack.

“If you want a dance, I think you should just ask him.” Gunther picks a tiny cherry tart off a serving platter and pops it, whole, into his mouth. “You never know; he might say yes. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.”

“He won’t,” Petra says. “Remember, I went with him last year. Commander’s orders.”

“Did you ask him  _then?”_ Gunther’s mouth is full and spilling a few crumbs, and Auruo nicks a napkin from the table and shoves it against his chest, disgusted.

“Well, no,” she admits, begins to nibble fretfully at her lower lip. “But I knew he wouldn’t have wanted to. He barely left his seat the whole night.”

“The  _whole_ night?” Auruo shakes his head, tut-tutting. “A damn shame. Who  _did_ you dance with, then?”

“Whoever. The commander was kind enough; I had a number or two with him. Squad Leader Mike. Captain Hannes from the Garrison. Commandant Shadis, once.”

 _“Shadis?”_ Auruo nearly spits. “The captain’s a scumbag for letting you. And stop that, Petra, dear. You’ll get lipstick on your teeth. ” 

All of them remember learning to dance as part of basic training, precisely for such occasions as this one. The lessons were, of course, care of the incumbent commandant and this or that terrified, shaking young corporal—the four of them came out of the Training Corps in different years, and can verify that it was a different person each time—and if they imagine hard enough they can still remember the forbidding thump of heavy boots against the ground, clouds of dust being churned up by the turns and steps of what was, allegedly, supposed to be a sprightly polka. Since assuming the position of head instructor, it seems that Shadis is no slouch in this respect either, if the Survey Corps’ new blood are to be believed.

Erd snorts quietly, and takes a small sip from his glass of wine. “No wonder the brass told us to come in full force this year. They probably want people besides him cutting the rug.” 

That makes her laugh, at least, but then she leans back against the wall to take a bit of weight off her shoes, brow wrinkling in a frown as she watches the rest of the room come out of its post-dinner stupor, people rising gracefully from their seats and stepping toward the dance floor. Two by two, arm in arm—her eyes skim over them, just a little yearning, and she sighs. If the captain had his way they wouldn’t be here at all, any of them. She knows he’s made it abundantly clear to Erwin what he thinks of things like  _maintaining amicable relations_ and  _networking,_ but all the same, she still thinks she’d dearly love to be out on the floor right now, floating and light on her feet and caught up completely in the music. It doesn’t even really have to be with  _him_ , she supposes, not necessarily—but if it were _,_ it’d definitely be something to write home about.

The three men at her side see how her face falls just a little, trade needle-sharp glances. A comprehensive plan of action passes wordlessly between them.

“Hey, why the long face?” Gunther moves first, nudges Petra gently in the side, and when she glances back at him he crooks his elbow toward her in offering. “If it’s a dance you want, it’s a dance you get.”

She cheers up a little at that, and settles her hand on his arm, touched. He leads her toward the floor and they move easily into position to the sound of strings—a few high-pitched, preparatory notes seguing immediately into a faster, livelier strain.

“Speak of the devil,” Gunther remarks, and she laughs; you’d have to be deaf not to recognize the opening bars of the infamous Training Corps polka. She’s heard it described before as torture, but Petra thinks she rather likes the quick, closing little sequence of half-steps herself—a hop here, a skip there, faster and faster, skirts whirling and feet kicking up all around the room. “Oops, there’s the captain. Show him a smile.”

Sure enough, she glimpses Levi at the officers’ table. He’s seated between Commanders Erwin and Pixis, nursing his own glass of wine, face angled sideward like he’s only half-listening to what must be a quite important discussion being conducted over his head—something about supply routes, maybe, or reinforcing the wall, or the weather, or New Year’s resolutions. Petra doesn’t know, but she thinks his eyes shift toward her as they spin past, and when Gunther lifts his arm to turn her it might be that Levi follows the movement with his eyes; she looks back at him, straight into his face, and beams.

It’s a fast dance, and Levi looks away even faster, so she never gets to see what his face looks like as they complete their circuit around the room and move now toward its center. The music swells, and they change position; Gunther is holding her by both her hands now, grinning from ear to ear as he pulls her forward, then back, forward, then back, drops one hand so she can spin away to his right and kick her leg up in a long, graceful arc through the air.

“Bet you were top of the class for this lesson,” he says as Petra comes back toward him, settling her arm across his near shoulder again. She answers, laughing, modest, “Second from the top.”

A hop here, a skip there, not so very fast this time. They’re back to where they started, where Auruo is waiting to cut in, and Gunther hands her over with a “Thanks, this was fun!” and a jaunty wave. He disappears within seconds of exiting the floor—probably back to the buffet table, Petra thinks as the music shifts toward a new song. Slower now, sliding and percussive. 

Auruo holds her hands, keeps her body at arm’s length for more freedom of movement, and they start in place; back, forward, hips swaying in time to the beat. He’s a talkative dance partner, and barks more orders at her than Shadis is probably wont to do at the new kids, hissing under his breath—”You’re stiff as a board, Petra,” as he begins to lead her backwards across the floor, and “put your hips into it,” on a series of turns that must look to an observer like so much intricate footwork and an incomprehensible tangle of arms.

Petra knows she’s not fifteen anymore and by no means a blushing schoolgirl, but there are the drums, and the blood pulses and beats under her skin. The flush comes right up into her face when Auruo reels her in for the dip—”The captain’s watching”—bracing a hand against her waist as her upper body sinks backward and down.

Pixis has wandered off somewhere, she notes, and though Levi’s face is upside down there’s no mistaking the quizzical lift of his eyebrow. He and Erwin are watching the floor now, a bottle of wine between them; she thinks she sees the commander smile, his mouth move around some kind of appreciative statement in response to which Levi rolls his eyes. Then she’s up again, and Auruo is guiding her one-handed in a circle around him— _“hips, girl, hips.”_

She’s still trying to lip-read Erwin as she moves—that looks like her name, maybe the word _you—_ whatever it is, it makes Levi shake his head and down the rest of his wine. She sighs, suddenly short of breath, comes back in front of Auruo: “What’s your assessment?”

“I’ll give it a pass,” he answers. “You could probably seduce one of the trainees.” They’re in place again, pacing themselves through the last of the back-and-forward rocking steps, and Petra nearly forgets all her manners and breaks his fingers. “Maybe two of them if the second one had bad vision.” 

The drums halt, they strike a final pose, one set of hands joined and the other arm raised high and curved in the air, and then Auruo dips toward her in a shallow, mocking little bow, exits with a smirk. She lingers on the floor, hand pressed to her chest to catch her breath—out of the corner of her eye she sees Levi pour himself another glass of wine—until she hears Erd’s voice sound at her elbow: “May I have this dance?”

There’s a tall, willowy woman in a sheath of red silk sitting down at the piano, and if the soft notes that issue out from under her fingers are any indication, this one’s going to be a waltz. It looks like things are winding down, so Petra nods to Erd, takes a few steps backward and drops down into a curtsy, the folds of her skirt billowing out all around her like the petals of a flower. His returning bow is positively princely, right arm bent around his middle, the other behind his back—a loose salute, almost. Then they begin, stepping forward, closing the gap one-two-three, one-two-three, until they stand face to face and extend their arms toward each other.

She likes the waltz best of all, Petra thinks, and she tells Erd so as he takes her gently through the paces—one-two-three, one-two-three in measured, gliding circles across the marble, feet skimming light as down over the floor.

“I think I do too,” he says. He sounds almost shy, like he’s making a confession. “I’ve always found it beautiful.”

“Do you ever do this with…” Petra lets her voice trail—she’s pretty sure Erd’s never told her the name of his civilian girl, though she’s seen a picture once or twice, remembers the sweet face and the clear blue eyes.

“Liesel.” He’s looking far off into the air over her shoulder, and he utters the name like a prayer, but then his gaze shifts back to Petra and he chuckles, embarrassed at his own softness. “And I haven’t had the chance just yet. I’m saving it for our wedding.” He squeezes her hand. “You’re great practice, though, I hope you know. And you’ll be invited to dance there too, of course.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she says, fondly, turning slowly under his arm. She can imagine it already—a ballroom, smaller than this one but as brightly lit, perhaps warmer and more intimate, all decked out with fresh flowers. Erd in a new linen suit and his girl in white lace, beaming like a pair of stars out at their guests as they twirl in a perfect, infinite spiral. A new dress for herself, maybe, one that she’s saved up for—what color should it be? “I wonder if the captain will join me then.”

“Oh, I don’t know; he may join you sooner. Come here.” Erd’s arm moves down, catches her around the waist, and she makes a small noise of surprise and glee as he lifts her high in the air and spins, strong and sure, pivoting on his feet without missing a single count, one-two-three. The whole room whirls around her but she catches right away what he means—Gunther and Auruo at the officers’ table, bowing their heads diffidently to their commander before their hands close around Levi’s arms and they all but pull him bodily from his chair. (She can practically hear the kind of lip they’re spewing, just because it’s New Year’s Eve and a public event and he can’t slit all their throats open— _You’re under arrest, captain,_ and  _this is an official operation.)_  Erwin backing away toward a far wall, mouth pinched closed like he’s trying to hide a smirk, satisfied.

Erd lowers her back to the ground, takes her hand as the song dwindles to its last twinkling notes, and presents it with a flourish to—who else—their captain. Levi stands now at the borders of the dance floor with Gunther and Auruo like sentinels on either side, shooting them a glare withering enough to scorch through an entire forest. If it singes them at all they wave it off, unconcerned, and push him forward.

“Give her a dance, captain!”

When the piano goes quiet, it’s like the whole room grinds to a halt. Now that he’s actually in front of her, Petra hesitates, her feet suddenly clumsy and weighted, all choreography forgotten. She looks sidelong at Erd and bites down on her lip again, but he gives her hand another squeeze and mouths  _Break a leg,_  leads her relentlessly forward.

“Captain,” he says, taking Levi by the sleeve so he can turn his hand upright and unceremoniously drop Petra’s hand into it. “Petra.” Then he turns on his heel and the three of them are gone, striding away who-knows-where, probably some shadowy corner where they can contemplate the fruits of their scheming. (Or, perhaps, the inevitable doom that awaits them as soon as this party is over. What’s the prescribed sanction for conspiring against, and/or manhandling your commanding officer? That definitely sounds like grounds for a court-martial. Or maybe he’ll just kill them without due process—they wouldn’t put it past him.)

The pianist seems to be taking an eternity to start on the next song; Petra chances a glance at Levi’s face and sees him frown, glowering down at their joined hands. In two seconds, she’s sure, he’s going to drop it like a hot potato.

Instead, he says, “You must be tired.”

“Very,” she answers. The slight breathlessness is definitely part fatigue—she’s pushed herself beyond the known limits of her stamina tonight, to be sure—but also part something else, standing so close to him, hands linked, realizing that she’s never seen him look so unsure before.

“But I love to dance,” she adds, and when he looks up at her she’s sure to have a smile ready. “If you would, it’d be an honor.”

She thinks she sees his cheeks color the slightest, slightest bit. (Is that a trick of the light? Or possibly the wine? Must be the wine.) Then, wonder of wonders, his fingers fold around hers and he takes a step forward, two steps—is this actually happening?—three steps, drawing her back toward the center of the room. “Erwin says it’s usually the man who leads, or whatever, but you’re going to have to show me,” he tells her, warning, like it’s code for  _this is your last chance to get out of here._ “I missed out on basic training, remember.”

“Oh.” She’d forgotten about that small detail. “I, um.” Her throat is dry. Somewhere in the distance, through the fog that’s crept into her head, she hears the piano again—another slow song, some ballad. Is she really suggesting this?  _Really?_  “I know an easy one.”

“All right.” He brings them into position, his movements still awfully precise for someone who claims to know exactly squat about what he’s doing—his right arm and her left out, hands joined, his left hand at her upper back, her right on his shoulder. “We start like this?”

“Erm, no.” His eyebrow goes up again— _what do you mean, no?—_ but he waits quietly as she reorients them, moves his hands to the small of her back, drapes her own arms over his shoulders, hands folded under the base of his neck. “The hands go like this.”

“Like this?” He’s looking everywhere but into her eyes, a superhuman feat considering how close this new position has brought them, nearly chest to chest, breathing each other’s air. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. And then you just sway.” She swallows hard, and shifts her weight a little from foot to foot show him. “In time to the music, you know.”

“That’s all?” He seems relieved at the lack of complicated footwork—and no lifts, no spinning—but her eyes still widen just a tiny fraction when he actually begins to follow her, their bodies rocking back and forth in quiet synchrony.

“That’s all. It’s really not hard.” Petra forces herself to look straight ahead, so that when he brings his gaze back around she can catch and hold it, hold them both there in the middle of the floor. “We can talk, even. Some people do, to make it less awkward.”

“Petra.” His fingers splay at her waist—she can feel his palms, warm through the fabric of her dress, and swallows down a little gasp—and bring her even closer so that he can speak directly into her ear. Is this the wine, she wonders? Must be, definitely, definitely the wine. “Really, this is fine.”

 _It’s fine,_  she agrees, silently, and allows her head to come to rest— _at last_ —against his shoulder. They  _don’t_ have to talk, because in this last hour or so before the new year the whole room seems to be holding its breath, and the song is now so soft neither of them can hear it anymore.


End file.
